Man Alone, Good Man
by NeonRoses
Summary: BBC Sherlock fanfiction. Sherlock needs to let John move on with his life, but it comes at a cost. He must tune into his human side and sacrifice...


**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic focuses on Sherlock discovering his feelings for John a little too late. It's all about emotions so it may or may not seem rushed in parts. I originally had the beginning of this written on FanFiction but I wanted to turn it into a longer fic comprising of only one chapter. I hope you enjoy it. Please leave a review. Take care, x**

3 years after the fall –The Return

He was in the back of a London cab, his icy eyes flickering from the Houses of Parliament to Big Ben, then over to the London Eye and the River Thames. He hadn't been back here in the city for three years. He'd been in hiding, his dark hair cut much shorter, his style of clothing changed and his usual eccentric mannerisms toned down.

Sherlock brought out his new phone. Mycroft had ensured it was protected and top-of-the-range. After all, they didn't want to risk Moriarty's men tapping into his phone in suspicion when they realised a Sherlock Holmes-lookalike was wondering the streets.

A soft blanket of snow had settled on the floor this December night and Sherlock tightened his coat around him, shivering not only because of the cold, but because he was apprehensive. He was seeing John again for the first time since he'd spectacularly fallen from St Bart's. He knew deep down that this reunion would not be easy. There would be questions; there would be anger and arguments. Sherlock still wasn't brilliant socially, and Mycroft had warned him again and again that John might refuse to accept his return. There could be 'tears, swearing and violence' too, apparently. Sherlock had huffed on the end of the phone to his brother, "Why? Why would he be violent? He considered me his friend. I thought he'd be happy?" At this, Mycroft had sighed and rolled his eyes, replying in his typically haughty manner, "I don't expect you to understand the inner workings of an ordinary man's mind, Sherlock, but please don't expect there to be fanfares or red carpets rolled out. He'll most likely swing a punch at you and say that he never wants to see you again."

The cab finally pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. Nothing had changed. Not that he'd expected it to, but still, it was surreal. The door and windows looked exactly the same and Speedy's Sandwich Shop was still there next door. It would be open for business as usual tomorrow. The world had kept going, even after the 'death' of the world's only consulting detective.

Just as Sherlock was about to reach the front door and hesitantly ring the bell, he heard loud female laughter coming from close by. He whipped round in his nervousness and saw a middle-aged blonde woman giggling and linking arms with none other than John Watson. They were walking down the street, utterly taken by one another. Sherlock took a few measured steps back, concealing himself within the shadows of Speedy's as he watched the couple stop to gaze at each other.

"Mary, how many times do I have to tell you? It wasn't me! That waiter tripped over himself!"

The woman shook her head with a kindly smile. "Oh come on John, you thought he was flirting with me. But why would I even look at him when I've got you?"

John appeared to smile widely at this and Sherlock felt his heart swell. He'd missed his former flat mate's grin, his unflattering jumpers, the way he strode around with his head held high in bid to appear taller. Sherlock felt the corners of his lips twitch up into a very small smile at seeing his friend again. _He's put on 2 pounds. No, no, 3 pounds. Different hair cut. Looking very well. Wearing his 'dating' shirt. Hmph. Out to impress then?_

Sherlock now turned his attention to the woman seemingly called Mary. _Easily in her late thirties. A friend of John's, it seems. Also out to impress judging by her frankly ridiculously low-cut blouse. Her dark blonde hair has been curled when it's naturally supposed to be straight. Ugh. Dull._

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion when he saw John get down on one knee and fumble awkwardly in his jacket pocket.

"Mary," he said, a proud look on his face as he produced a small red velvet box. "My beautiful Mary. Will you do me the honour of being my wife?"

The woman jumped on the spot a few times, squealing like a maniac as she pulled the former army doctor back up. She hugged him tightly, a beaming smile on her face. "Yes! Oh gosh. Yes!"

Sherlock shrunk back further into the shadows, a bizarre tightening in his chest. He cleared his throat quietly and tried to slow his breathing, which was now creating clouds of condensation in the winter air. _John._ _His_ John was getting married. He couldn't believe it. No. No…

As the couple, oblivious to the world around them, let themselves into the flat, Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed Mycroft.

After a few rings, he picked up.

"Oh dear lord. What is it, Sherlock? Has John thrown you out onto the street, per chance?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

There was now silence on the other end of the line.

"Mycroft? Answer me!"

"What? That he has a girlfriend? Why does something so trivial matter to you? Pray tell."

"I just… I don't like being left in the dark about these things," Sherlock quipped, not allowing his voice to break. Emotions. They were all threatening to come out now.

"It was only a matter of time before he settled down with somebody. What, were you truly expecting him to sit alone in the flat forever?"

"No, I…"

"Listen, Sherlock, he was your, let's say, your 'sidekick'… for a good long while. He's grown out of that now. He wants a stable relationship. He's an ordinary man, remember… looking for an ordinary life…"

"I don't believe that," Sherlock cut in sharply. "John is anything but ordinary. He needs me."

"The two of you could still be friends, perhaps. But be honest to yourself, Sherlock, does it really look like he _needs_ you anymore?"

Sherlock swallowed and thought back to how happy John had looked in this woman's company. Did he ever think of him anymore? Or was he a distant memory? Was his violin, skull or science equipment still in the flat, in fact? And why did he feel so hurt and surprised by tonight's events?

Sherlock hung up the phone and looked to the floor solemnly, his blue eyes shining with wetness.

Grass keeps growing. Cars keep driving. Time keeps ticking. And life moves on.

...

The Diogenes Club was silent as per usual. Sherlock entered the building, his head aloft as he passed the old, sleepy-looking club members. They wouldn't have recognised him from that far back in time. Yes, he'd been a semi-famous figure in the papers, but why would anybody apart from Moriarty's cronies remember what the 'fraudulent detective' who committed suicide three years ago looked like. Besides, his image overhaul was enough to keep the public at bay.

Mycroft led his younger brother into an empty room that was out of the way behind a set of double doors. It was grand and clearly well-kept. Sherlock's eyes flitted over the plush furnishings and grand chandeliers.

"So I'm staying here tonight, I take it? Hmm. Boring. What can I possibly do in here all night apart from stare at these vacuous paintings?" Sherlock mused; his eyes still scanning the room with a scrutiny that made Mycroft roll his eyes.

"Be quiet," his brother hissed, closing the doors behind them. "Remember the vow of silence. Do you really want to draw attention to yourself, dear brother?"

"Obviously not."

"You should have stayed at Baker Street. I had my surveillance cameras on the area tonight and it was all clear. Who knows, it might not be the same tomorrow."

Sherlock was staring ahead, his eyes misted over. "He proposed to this woman, Mycroft. How long have they been together?"

"John Watson and Mary Morstan have been in each other's company for a good two years, if that's what you mean," Mycroft replied with a sardonic smile. "It's no different to all those little dates he had back in the day. Why are you so sour about this?"

"It is _very_ different. And I'm not sour."

"Yes, you are."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"Do you want to remain here for the night or shall I get my men to take you to a grotty bedsit? Which would you prefer?"

Sherlock scoffed and flopped himself down on one of the sofas, putting his feet up, much to his brother's dismay.

"That furniture costs a great deal more than you seem to think. Have some respect."

"I don't care."

"Stop sulking, for god's sake. John isn't gone, he's still there. He just has a fiancé. Deal with the facts."

Sherlock closed his eyes and leant his head back, enjoying the silence after his day of heavy travel but wishing he had John by his side to talk to instead of his annoying brother. Still, his brother was preferable to that irritating looking woman, Mary.

Mycroft was leaning on his umbrella when Sherlock opened his eyes again.

"Are you planning to return to 221B tomorrow?" he asked slowly. "Because you're going to have to face the music eventually, Sherlock. John needs to know you're alive. It's high time. You do want to return, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Then tomorrow morning?"

Sherlock waited for a moment, his mind in overdrive. "No," he said after a moment's silence. "I'll go back there now."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "No no no. It's far too late. They're likely to be asleep."

"Never mind." Sherlock lifted himself up and smoothed down his coat. "I used to wake John up in the middle of the night for cases all the time. He won't mind."

"Sherlock. I'm warning you… _not now_."

"It's a brilliant idea, actually. The sooner he realises this woman isn't going to complete his life, the better. He needs me to remind him exactly who he is. He's an army man. A soldier. A man who lives his life on the edge, who needs cases, who needs danger and adventure. He needs me. Not... her."

"He loves the woman. He'll eventually want to start a family with her. And you really want to scupper all of that?"

"A family? Don't make jokes, Mycroft - you're not exactly gifted in that department. John needs my kind of lifestyle."

"Then I suppose you're not the good man I thought you were capable of being…"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, before striding out of the room, past the leaving club members and out the front door into the black, chilly night.

...

Mary was sitting up in bed, her long hair collecting over one shoulder as she tilted her head and examined the piece of paper in front of her.

"It's midnight, Mary. Seriously, what are you doing?" John muttered, his head on the pillow beside her. He glanced up at her fondly as she absent-mindedly chewed on the end of her fountain pen.

"Wedding guests. I'm thinking about them already."

"What? Really?" John shifted up into a sitting position and placed his arm loosely around her as he looked at the list. "Who on earth are they?" he said, pointing to a few of the names she'd written down.

"Old friends from school. They're lovely. You'll adore them," she replied with a smile, settling in close next to her fiancé, reveling in the warmth and comfort he provided. She's fallen in love with his warm demeanour from the start. He was loyal and kind and so very brave. She'd heard all about his friendship with the deceased detective, Sherlock Holmes. Apparently it'd all been complete chaos back then with plenty of chases, guns and villains.

"Have you got any guests in mind?" she asked.

"Me? Now? God, no. It's a bit early for all that. I only proposed a couple of hours ago!"

"I know, but I'm excited. Can you blame me?"

She snuggled in close, resting her head on John's scarred shoulder. "Would you have invited that Sherlock Holmes, if he were still here?"

John tensed up beside her and the atmosphere in the room changed dramatically. Tension seeming to be stilling the air.

"Hm? Would I have invited… Sherlock?" John pursed his lips and looked down at the bed covers, examining the pattern in a bid not to well up. He then laughed quietly and shakily. "Sherlock wouldn't have liked weddings. He'd have probably thought them extremely dull. Y'know, he probably would have insulted your dress... insulted all the guests. He wouldn't have eaten any of the cake either. He rarely ate – digestion hindered his mental ability, apparently."

Mary giggled lightly and placed her hand over John's in a sympathetic gesture. "I know, darling. You've told me. Many a time."

John didn't look her in the eye, and she noticed this. He'd always clam up and become distant when Sherlock was mentioned. It was as if the light behind his dark blue eyes faded and he became nothing more than the image of a man without a soul.

He missed Sherlock. Still. Three years on and the pain still niggled away at him. His therapist, Ella, had said this was quite normal. According to her, losing a friend would stay with you forever. The pain would fade in time and would be replaced by good memories. But you'd never forget them. Not really.

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock was alive and well… and he was striding up Baker Street at this very moment.

"Let's go to sleep love," John said, a forced smile on his lips.

Mary leant over to the bedside table and placed her guest list atop it, switching off the lamp to cast the room in darkness. Not that they were going to get much sleep however, for the doorbell buzzed sharply for quarter of a second…

John threw back the covers in annoyance. "Christ. Who the hell is it at this hour?"

Mary was equally confused, swinging her legs off the bed and grabbing her dressing gown from the top of the chest of drawers.

"No, Mary, no. Come back to bed. I'll get the door…"

"It's okay darling. I'm quite capable."

John, stubborn as always, got up and grabbed her hand. "Look. It's really late. It's unlikely to be someone nice or normal at the door."

The doorbell started to buzz insistently now and John's eyes widened a little in fear as he pulled his own dressing gown on. Mary couldn't help but hold back a giggle. "Your days of being stalked by criminals are over. Relax. It's going to be harmless. Maybe that landlady of yours has locked herself out."

"What? At this time? I highly doubt that."

"Come on!" Mary tugged at his hand and the two of them tip-toed through the flat, descended the stairs and hovered by the front door.

"You open it…" John said playfully, tapping her on the arm, a thrill of excitement passing through him as they stood there in the dark.

"No, you do it," she whispered.

John stifled a laugh and went to open the door.

A tall male figure stood before them. The first thing John noticed was that he was a spitting image of Sherlock. _What the-?_

The familiar clever deep voice spoke. "Oh, look. The happy couple. John, can't you open the door yourself without your fiancé following you like the proverbial sheep?"

John seemed to lose all the feeling in his legs. He supported himself against the wall. His brain was in shock. He couldn't register anything. He glanced at Mary, his eyes showing zero reaction, then back at Sherlock. It wasn't five seconds before he was on the floor. He'd fainted.

…

When John opened his eyes, he was lying on the sofa. Sherlock standing close by, staring at him intently as Mary dabbed John's face with a wet flannel.

"John? John? Are you feeling okay?" she asked frantically.

John's eyes were fixed on Sherlock now. He propped himself up, pointing his finger at the man in front of him. "What the hell… is going on?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. "John, allow me to expl-"

"What the SODDING HELL IS GOING ON? Mary, are you seeing this? Are you seeing him?"

Mary's eyebrows knitted together as she glanced up at the tall, dark-haired man. "Yes, I'm seeing him. Could somebody explain what's going on?"

"I'm trying to." Sherlock replied with a lazy shrug of his shoulders as John appeared to be losing the will to live.

"You're supposed to be dead. You're DEAD, Sherlock!"

Mary had finally clocked on. "What? This… this is Sherlock Holmes? I… don't understand."

Sherlock huffed in impatience and took her by the arm. "I wouldn't expect you to understand. You don't look like the sharpest tool in the box. Now please, leave me and John alone if you don't mind."

"I do mind very much actually!" She yanked her arm away from Sherlock's pale fingers. "John is going to be my husband and you're clearly distressing him. I'm not going to pretend to understand this bizarre situation but I want you to leave. Get out! Come back in the morning if you really have to."

"No!"

John's sudden exclamation stunned both Mary and Sherlock into silence. They stared at him, their eyes pleading separate things. John swallowed and cleared his throat, his expression still one of pure surprise. There were beads of sweat forming on his forehead and his complexion was becoming so pale that his skin almost looked grey.

"I want him to stay. L- let him stay. Mary, sweetheart, give us a few minutes would you? Please?" His voice broke on the last word and he refused to even make eye contact with Sherlock now as Mary left the room silently.

Sherlock went to take a step towards John but the army doctor held his hand up as if to say 'stop right there.'

"I damn well hope this is a dream," he muttered, staring at the ground, "because I am not getting this. I am simply _not_ getting this."

"I want to explain, but I don't think now is the right time. After all, you're in shock. Your mind will propel any new information away at the moment. You need time to calm down. John… look at me."

John reluctantly lifted his head and caught Sherlock's eye. Those intelligent ice-blue eyes. He never thought he'd see them again. "Sherlock…" he choked, standing up unsteadily and wandering over to his old friend. He grasped him by the shoulders, touching his coat, making sure he was real. "Oh god… oh god…Sher-" He stopped and abruptly encased the taller man in a close, tight embrace and Sherlock very carefully placed one of his own hands on John's back.

"-you're alive. You're really alive."

"Mm. Yes. So it appears."

"I don't understand, Sherlock," John whimpered, his grip tightening. "I feel like I'm going mad."

"You're not going mad… or losing your mind. I'm here. I apologise, deeply. I didn't expect quite this reaction though, I must say."

Without warning, John growled and pushed away before slamming his fist full-on into Sherlock's face, sending the other man almost toppling over with the sheer force of the impact.

"Ah, ouch! See, that's the reaction I was initially expecting…"

"You bastard! You cold-hearted bastard! Do you know how many months I spent crying over losing you? Do you know how long I was grieving? I visited your grave almost every bloody day. Your grave, Sherlock! Yours! And you're not even there. You're… you're here!"

"Calm down."

"No, I will not calm down! You could have told me you were still alive."

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and forced him to stop and look into his eyes. "I did this all for you, John. Every single thing. My faked death… keeping you in the dark about it… it was all part of the plan to keep _you_ safe. This barely benefitted me. But it kept Moriarty's remaining workers away from _you_ "

John's breathing was no longer crazed or erratic. Instead, he was simply staring into Sherlock's eyes, his own eyelids fluttering after the shock.

"You're alive," he said again - more slowly this time - a single tear escaping his eye and rolling down his cheek.

"Yes. It's alright now. I'm here. Now, sit down and I'll explain everything..."

6 months later – The Wedding

Sherlock never wore ties. As Best Man at this upcoming wedding, he decided to wear his usual attire of white shirt, black jacket and trousers. He reluctantly customized his appearance with a white flower in the buttonhole of his jacket pocket. John wandered into the living room, catching Sherlock's gaze in the reflection of the mirror. He seemed giddy, high on endorphins and excitement for the day ahead.

"You look great, Sherlock. Not much different, but then again I didn't expect much effort on your part."

"What is a 'Best Man' _supposed_ to wear, John? This seems perfectly appropriate to me."

John chuckled lightly to himself. "No, don't worry, it's fine. It's absolutely fine."

"And you…" Sherlock muttered. "You look… good."

John went into the kitchen and began to pour himself a tea. "Wow, was that a compliment I just heard? Wasn't expecting that. You feeling alright?"

Sherlock felt claustrophobic, constricted. He watched John's profile as the other man sipped his tea. He looked smarter than Sherlock had ever seen him. He no longer looked like the John Watson he used to know. _This_ John Watson was his own man. Stronger. Happier. Settled. He looked so strikingly inviting to Sherlock that the detective struggled to utter a single word. "Um, yes, yes, I'm fine," he said quietly, not actually intending John to hear.

…

"And do you, John Hamish Watson, take Mary Morstan to be your lawful wedded wife, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

Time seemed to slow down. John's eyes flickered over to Sherlock's. Their gaze held for a split second, but to the two men, it felt more like an hour. It was a moment of clarification - Sherlock knew he was losing John. No, he'd lost him. Just now.

John cleared his throat gently, looked down, then glanced at Sherlock once more… was that sadness in his eyes? Sherlock's lips parted of their own accord. He wanted to speak up. To say something… anything. But the words were caught.

But then John looked back at his future wife, clasping her hand between his. He nodded to himself as if finalising a decision in his head. "I do."

…

It was evening and the after party was in full swing. They had rented out a massive hall, decked the buffet tables with delicious food and hired a few butlers and waiters to flurry round the champagne fountain and offer up nibbles to the guests.

Upbeat music was playing. Men and women alike were doing their best drunk-dancing, giggling at each other as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

Sherlock stood back in the distance, watching as John opened yet another wedding gift.

_Not another toaster, _Sherlock thought, rolling his eyes in disgust as John pretended to be happy with the third kitchen appliance of the evening.

Suddenly, Lestrade appeared at Sherlock's side. "Hey. You alright? How is it, being Best Man? I've never been a Best Man before. Aren't they supposed to make a speech or something?"

"Hm? Speech?"

"Yeah, y'know… they always make a speech… talking about how sweet the couple is and all that. Bet you've got a few things you want to tell John in front of everyone. Like 'sorry for jumping off that building and pretending to be dead'?"

"Right." Sherlock walked over to the music speakers, stepped on the wire and pulled out the plug with his polished shoe. The hall was cast into quiet, everyone turning round to see why the music had gone off. Sherlock took a stand in the middle of the room and held up a glass to John, who was widening his eyes frantically, as if to say 'oh god, what the hell is he doing?'

"I hear as Best Man, I'm supposed to make a speech. I won't bore you all, because believe me, I'm less inclined towards coping with boredom than most of you. In fact, I'd rather die. So I'll keep it short, because words are often meaningless."

A few people chuckled awkwardly, especially Mike Stamford.

"Anyway, I thought you should know, John, that despite everything we've been through, you remained at my side. You protected me, believed in me and made me learn what it is to be a little more human." Sherlock closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. "You were and always will be… my best friend."

John was smiling when Sherlock opened his eyes again. The most beautiful and genuine of smiles Sherlock had ever seen. And _he_ had caused that. _He'd_ made John smile like that. Him. Despite the fact Mary was hanging onto John's arm, smiling too.

One of the staff plugged the music back in – it was slow music now. The kind you'd dance to with your loved one.

"To John…" Sherlock stated, holding up his glass. Everybody mimicked… "To John!" Rapturous applause and a few whistles followed shortly after.

John walked up to Sherlock in this time and patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "God. Thank you. That was… fantastic. I can't believe you didn't throw an insult in there. You've changed, Sherlock. Just a bit. But it's good." John didn't seem to be noticing that Sherlock hadn't smiled all night, but he pulled him into a brotherly hug before returning to Mary for their slow dance.

Sherlock sat down and heaved a sigh, his cold blue eyes and deadpan expression not showing his current state of mind. Everybody else had a partner to dance with, whether it was with their child, lover, best friend…

Lestrade and Molly were locked in a sort of upright, swaying cuddle that made Sherlock mildly amused, but more irritated, whereas John had his arm curled round Mary's slim waist, his other hand holding hers by their side. They both had their eyes closed as they turned on the spot very slowly, in peaceful harmony. An image of romantic love had never been more evident. And now, as Sherlock watched his friend dance with this woman so delicately, he finally realised what love is. He blinked, staring at John with a new kind of intensity - one he didn't even exhibit during exciting cases. He was suddenly taken aback, however, when John opened his own eyes and looked straight at Sherlock. Their gaze held.

John, looking over Mary's shoulder, offered his best friend a sad smile. He appeared to have tears in his eyes a moment later – for they were glistening in the low light as he mouthed 'Sherlock… you okay?'

Sherlock swallowed and stood up from his seat, his penetrating stare still on John. He nodded curtly, emotions locked away, then walked out of the halls and into the night.

...

On the other side of London, Mycroft stared at the screens of the CCTV footage and heaved a sigh. Sherlock was leaving the halls and returning in the direction of Baker Street, where Sherlock now lived alone.

Mycroft pulled out his phone and brought up his brother's text feed.

So, I see you allowed him to get married? - MH

He loves her, Mycroft. What was I supposed to do? - SH

Confess? It would be much simpler. But now it's too late. The marriage is down on official documents, in ink. - MH

Confess what, exactly? – SH

Let's not pretend. I saw the way you reacted when you discovered he was getting married. It doesn't take a genius to realise what you felt for him was more than just mere friendship. – MH

I would rather not discuss this. – SH

You do realise that I'm proud of you, Sherlock? - MH

Please don't go soppy on me, Mycroft. I feel nauseous enough as it is. - SH

The noblest thing you ever did was save that man's life. – MH

And your point is? – SH

Well ,the second noblest thing you ever did was let him go. You sacrificed your own happiness so that he himself could be happy. And for that, I do believe you to be a good man, dear brother. – MH

**END.**


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